Lela Pala Tute
by IrishFrenchy
Summary: This takes place after A Game Of Shadows. It's a long story, I'm going to warn you all now. Sim has gone through a lot and she needs to find herself again, away from her family and away from the lies. She never expected to see him again though, nor get thrown into The Ripper case and work with him. Holmes/Simza Mary/Watson
1. Chapter 1

Sim Heron had returned home a few days after the funeral for Holmes. However, home wasn't home anymore. It just didn't feel the same. She had hoped it would be a welcoming place, filling her with at least some of the happiness she had once had. Her family was welcoming, yes, but she was a broken woman now. As much as she hated to admit it, she was merely a shell of the woman she once was. The strong, independent Madam Simza she had been before was reduced to a heartbroken mess of a woman with wild hair and dark eyes. She could no longer look her loved ones in the eyes, afraid they would see through her lies, her troubles, or her dilemma.

She had lost two men who had meant the world to her, and it left her in shambles. One of them, though she was not willing to admit it to anyone but herself, she loved in a romantic way. He was strong, incredibly intelligent, quirky, and persistent, with a good humor and yet, he could also be so loving and caring. _Sentiment._ He had scoffed at the word and yet he was capable of caring deeply. He loved Watson as a brother. He cared for Mary on some level, even if it was only because she made his friend happy. He felt a lot of things for Irene Adler but _that _was a totally different animal entirely. The late Miss Adler was _the_ woman, _his _woman, a woman Sim could never fill the shoes of and she knew that, accepted it. It didn't stop her from feeling the way she did, though. But at least now, he could be with her, wherever they were in the afterlife or wherever he had believed they would end up.

She feared the mere mention of their names and did it as little as possible. In the Romani religion, to utter the name of a loved one who has passed away would draw them back to this world, this plane of existence. All gypsies fear the dead. To bring back a loved one would alter the universe, tearing them from their reincarnated life. It was against the rules of nature. Those who do not follow the rules go a dark place after they pass, stuck between the veils of this earth, forever to walk the lonely road of immortality as a distressed spirit.

To say the least, Sim feared for her life. She feared that the mere constant thought of a dead man would never let her sleep again, and make her a ghost instead of passing on to be reincarnated like the rest of her beloved family and clan.

She had told her family that Rene was nowhere to be found, that he had disappeared. She desperately feared that they would think less of him if she had told them the absolute truth. To gypsies, family was the most important thing. Family image above all else… And so, she lied for her dearest and late brother. It was all she could do. It cut her up to lie and prance around on eggshells but she needed to, it was the right thing to do. She seriously believed that one day, when she and Rene met each other once again, in the gray havens, he would thank her from the bottom of his heart.

However, there came a point that lying to her family became too much to handle. She had too much on her mind, too much for her strong but feminine heart to carry. The guilt was far too great and it forced her to admit something for the first time. She had to leave, there was no other alternative. She had been with her family for almost a year and a half since Sherlock Holmes had dragged her into the mix of things. Rene may have been gone for a long time now but the pain didn't ease, not even for a moment. Day and night she thought of him…

Late one night after everyone had gone to sleep, she decided to leave. She packed her bag and was careful to step around her uncle and cousins as she left her tent. She threw on the hat that had once been Doctor John Watson's and looked up into the fading moonlight. Dawn would arrive in a few hours and if she was going to leave, now would be the time. Wrapping the scarf she wore around her neck to keep out the cold, she began her journey. She took the first step to a new life and smiled a little bit as her boot touched the horseshoe packed dirt. "This is good for you, Simza," she reminded herself, and turned to look at the dying fire and quiet tents that she would surely miss.

On her way out she had left a note on the makeshift table in her tent, saying that she would be okay but she couldn't stay. She harbored too much pain and she needed to find herself again, get away from it all, and maybe one day she would be able to return. She made it clear that she loved everyone and that they were not the reason she had run away. She needed air, needed to breathe. She would go back to reading palms and telling fortunes in London to make a living. She would write them the moment she had the chance.

The train to London seemed like a lifetime. The only thing that kept her mind from things was a sketch that she had done of Holmes and Watson. If felt like a lifetime ago that she had been with them. A sad smile found her lips as she folded the paper up and slipped it into the pocket of her corduroy jacket. She missed those days. She honestly did.

A sigh escaped Sim's lips and she rested her head on the cushion while looking out of the window at the grassy landscape. Mere moments passed before she had drifted into sleep. She found herself lost in a good dream, not one of the nightmares that usually kept her awake at night.

Yes, she had made the right choice to leave. Things were already looking up and for that, she was grateful.


	2. Chapter 2

"After bad luck comes good fortune," Simza whispered to herself and sighed. Life was hard but the alternative was harder. She had gone back to fortune telling, her true passion. It made good money and she was happy to do it. She had been in town for nearly a month now, making a name for herself again. The local circus was in town and they had parked right near her tent and trailer. It was interesting to meet all the people who traveled and to hear their stories. She had come to know a great many of the 'cicrus freaks' and found them the nicest of people. They were kind hearted and soft spoken, never having anything mean to say and she easily befriended them.

She sat down at the table in her tucker trailer and pulled a deck of French tarot cards from her pocket. A man came in and sat down across from her. "Put your money in the bowl, please," she said, a ghost of a smile gracing her lips. He smiled and dropped two coins into a handmade metal bowl that lay in the center of the table.

"What is your name?" she asked. Outside, you could hear a horse winey. "Anthony," he replied and waited. She smiled and nodded. "Well, Anthony. I feel you have a good aura, a good mindset. That is hard to come by these days." He crossed his fingers in his lap, smiling lightly. "Thank you, miss."

She pulled the deck out and asked him to take three cards. "The world is a ladder, in which some go up and others go down," she told him, looking to the cards he had pulled out. She arranged them in the right order. "You, my friend, may as well leave all others behind. You will go places; leave the bad ones behind you." She pointed to the card of décès, or death. "Something in the near future will happen, though I know not whether it will be good or bad. Change will happen, my friend. It is up to you whether you chose the right road. Do not forget, change is good thing. It is the spice of life and without it this life would be boring, meaningless."

The man, Anthony, watched her as she spoke. He listened intently, in a polite manner. "Okay," he said, deep in thought. She nodded and pointed to another card. "Le Magicien." Her expression turned thoughtful and she puckered her lips a little as she searched for the words. "The Magician represents action. For say, needing to do what has to be done, or realizing your full potential, or perhaps, carrying out a plan." She cleared her throat and looked up at Anthony. "Do you have plans, Monsieur? Anything you're worried about? I may be able to give insight."

The man nodded and rubbed his freshly shaved face. "Next week, I am planning to take the girl I love with me, to visit my mother in Ireland. We're to be married and stay Northern Meath." He smiled a little and Sim nodded. "Hmmm." She looked down at the cards. "Perhaps your life will turn out for the best in the midst of chaos, a death in the family perhaps, an old loved one."

He nodded and looked down at the cards. "My mother has informed me that my brother is quite ill." Sim nodded, feeling sad for the man. His happy demeanor had gone dark, full of emotion. "Then go, be at his side." Anthony looked across the table at Sim as he fixed his coat. "I should. Thank you, ma'am," he said, tipping his hat to her. Sim smiled and reached out to touch his arm. "Good luck on your journey to Ireland, my friend. May you and your soon to be wife bear many children to carry on your family name."

The man bore a heavy smile and reached out to shake her fragile hand. "Thank you kindly, Mrs. umm," he realized then that he did not know her name. Sim smiled. "Madam Simza," she told him. He nodded and touched his hat. "Madam Simza."

She watched the tall man leave her trailer and she went to put her cards away. "I wish him the best," she said, smiling sadly. He was to be married, have a good life. Here she was, alone, trying to make a buck and get over a man she barely knew.

She took some money that she had saved up from her pocket and stuck it into an envelope that was already adressed. She closed it and kissed the paper. Inside, lay a letter to her family, wishing them the best and all her love, along with the money she had saved up to send to them. She hoped they would use the money for clothing or food, something important.

Later that night, she decided to head off to the city for a walk. She wrapped her coat tight around her and tucked her scarf into it. Her earrings jingled as she looked for the key to her trailer. As she locked it up, the sun began to set. "Jake," she said, seeing a friend of hers. The red head smiled and tipped his bowler cap to her as they passed.

Sim found herself making her way down the alley when she spotted a familiar face. "John!" she yelled, seeing if it was indeed the man she knew. "John Watson!" He stopped and turned. Upon seeing Sim, the doctor quickly made his way over to her, limping with his cane. A smile met his lips and Mary, his wife, followed close behind.

"My dear," he began. "Where have you been? Everyone said you'd gone back to France." It was the first time she had seen him in over a year and she was shocked to find that he hadn't changed at all. His eyes were still the same shade of sky blue, with his nicely trimmed mustache and his well-fitted three piece suit that he always wore. "You have not changed," she announced, laughing. She reached out and hugged him. "I did go back, but I couldn't stay. It was too hard." John nodded sadly and turned to his wife. "Sim, this is my beautiful wife, Mary." Sim smiled and touched her arm. "He is a keeper, this man," she said with a laugh, motioning to good doctor.

John laughed and waved her arm away. "How have you been getting along?" he asked sincerely. She shrugged and looked around. "Back to telling tarots and fortunes…" she said, her French accent beginning to show. Mary smiled. "Do you really? I always found that sort of thing so fascinating. A wonderful talent you possess, my dear." Sim smiled, blushing a little. "Thank you."

"Sherlock was wrong, I think," Mary said and looked up at her husband. "Gypsies are the kindest of people." They both smiled, knowing it was the truth. Sim looked to John, a sad look playing on her features. "Sherlock…" Immediately, she stopped talking. "Darn, forgive me," she started saying and trailed off. "I said it…" She made a face. "His name…" John and Mary looked a bit confused. "Well, it was good to see you both," Sim said. "Perhaps we will meet again, sometime soon?" John nodded without hesitation. "Yes, of course."

Sim stuck her hands into her pockets, trying to hide her frustration with herself. "I own a trailer on the far end of town, near the food market. Come visit sometime." Watson smiled and they went on to say their goodbyes.

As Sim was walking back to her trailer, she muttered curses under her breath. "How could I be so stupid, I said his name?" She touched her temples, trying to rub out the distress and anxiety. She would surely pay for that.


	3. Chapter 3

Early in next the morning Sim went out for a walk, just as she did every day. She wrapped her scarf close and buried her hands in her pockets as she made her way around the maze of caravan tents to get to the street, where venders were selling meat pies and fried chicken. The smell overwhelmed her and nearly made her walk over and buy some. "Never mind," she said aloud, seeing how long the line was.

With a smile, she walked down the boulevard. The cobblestone felt cold beneath her boots. She could feel some of the ice that was left from a previous fall snow radiate up to her ankles. "Burr," she whispered, pulling her jacket closer.

Her hair flowed behind her as she walked and her jacket clung to her. A gust of breeze blew by but eventually tapered off. A few men stopped and smiled, one whistling at her. She ignored them and kept on her way, weaving in and out of people who walked too slowly for her liking.

She thought of her reacquaintance with John Watson the previous night and couldn't help but smile. She was happy and thought it very lucky that she had run into him, she missed him dearly. When they had been away on their journey, she had come to think of John as an older brother. He was protective and very much a good hearted man. He was funny and sarcastic, like Sherlock. It was easy to see why Mary had fallen for him. They were a cute couple, seeming to be the perfect match. Sim immediately liked Mary, for she was kind and spoke her mind. She was like Sim in a lot of ways, but all in good ways.

While she stopped to buy a few apples from a vender she bumped into a man. "Very sorry," he said, catching the apple she had dropped. The man was tall, lean. She couldn't help but look into his eyes as he gave her the fruit. For a moment, she was dumbstruck. "I know those chocolate brown eyes…" she mumbled and trailed off. He smiled and tipped his hat as he walked away, going on about his day.

She dropped her apples in the hand of the vender. "Umm, I'll be back," she told him and ran after the man she had bumped into. The vender looked confused and he watched her leave. He merely scratched his head at the situation and went on taking money from other customers.

The tall man dressed in upper class clothing, with a bowler cap was making his way down an alley. Sim followed after him, running to catch up. "Hey!" she hollered to him. Finally, he stopped and turned to her. He obviously had not realized she had gone after him.

She took a few steps closer to him until they were within arm's length of each other. He raised his eyebrows at her and she reached out with confidence, and tore off the fake moustache he wore. He looked a little shocked and he made a sort of pout face. "Sherlock!" she said, confirming her suspicions from earlier. "You…" she trailed off, her mind reeling. "The only reason I didn't stop was because I'm trailing someone right now," he told her. She looked up at him, terrified.

"Mullo," she muttered, pointing to him. Horror passed through her expression, and her face contorted. "Mishto, what have I done?" she nearly shouted, putting her hands over her face. Sherlock looked confused and he cocked his head a little. "Sim, it's me, Sherlock." She blinked a few times, freaking out. "I know! That's the problem!"

He reached out for her but she stepped back, out of his reach. She ran away from him, in the direction she had come from. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. "My case can wait…" he told himself, looking in the direction of the man he had been tailing before and shook his head. He quickly sprinted after her, dodging people in the busy streets.

She was headed for the traveling circus' tents and he wondered why. After a few minutes of running after her, he saw her run into a tucker trailer and slam the door behind her. He stopped for a moment, catching his breath.

"Damnit," Sim swore. Her breathing was rapid, jagged, and her heart drummed like a metronome. She fall back against her old creaky door and took a deep breath. "This is all my fault, I said his name. I will pay for all of eternity, now. How could I be so stupid?" She slammed her fist on the door behind her and sighed, after which, she groaned and covered her face with her hands. "I'm so stupid."

"Sim," a voice came from outside. "I get it now, so just let me explain." Sherlock's tone was soft, tender almost. "You think I died. I assure you I am quite alive. Open the door and I promise to explain everything to you, if you let me. Please." Sim let her hands fall and she whipped away her tears. She was hysterical and she tried to calm herself, taking deep, slow breaths. "You did not die?" she asked, moving to open the door. He pulled off the hat to his disguise and smiled softly. "No, I didn't."

All at once, she was furious. "Let me explain," he said, putting his palms up in defense. She clenched her jaw and stepped aside for him to come in. "Dieu, I would kill you if only it wouldn't send me straight to hell!" she pointed to her own chest and sighed heavily. "Douleur dans le cul." He smiled at her as he played with the brim of his hat. "You just call me a pain in the butt?"

He walked up the steps to her trailer as he proceeded to tell her his story. He told her how he and Moriarty had fallen into the water, how he had survived, thanks to his brother's contraption. He told her how long the journey home was, which is why everyone thought he was dead. He didn't make it home in time to announce he was alive as his funeral had already taken place. He told her about how Mary and Watson had responded to his 'still being alive.' Eventually, he had made the papers. They painted him out to be some sort of a magician, despite his desire to keep everything quiet.

Sim suddenly felt stupid. She had not given Watson the chance to tell her Sherlock was still alive, she had left in such a hurry. She shook off her thoughts as she watched Sherlock speak.

Her eyes filled with tears and she quickly went to wipe them away. "You don't know what I…" she started but trailed off. "It has been almost two years since I have seen your face." Sherlock watched her and his eyebrows drew together. He looked worried and afraid that she would break down.

She reached up and slapped him across the face, but not very hard. "Ouch," he said, reaching up to touch the stinging flesh on his cheek. "What was that for?" He asked, but never received a reply. Without a moment's notice, she cupped his cheeks with both of her small hands and kissed him full on the lips. He didn't push her away as she pressed her lips to his, and that surprised her a little. It was a deep kiss and just as he began to return it, she pulled away for air. It was obvious that she failed to notice that he had begun to return the favor, and he felt his cheeks burn. "I missed you," she told him, her eyes red rimmed from tears. She sniffled as she looked him over. "I can see that," he replied and his eyebrows rose. He just looked at her, unsure of what to make of the events that had just taken place.

As if nothing had just happened, she motioned around her trailer with a hand. "You like it? This is my home," she told him. He smiled, still shocked from the slap and the kiss. "It's very nice." He added a small smile for good measure. "What does 'mullo' mean?" he finally asked, looking to her. "Ghost." She laughed at herself, shaking her head.


	4. Chapter 4

Sim had only made a few pounds in fortunes as it was raining like a banshee outside, and it had been all day. She sat on her daybed, watching the rain come down through open door of her trailer. Her door was open to get a good breeze going, circulating cool air around the room. Even though it was the end of autumn, it was warm out. Sim ahted hot weather, the way it made her feel. It was like walking through warm, sticky butter. The rain came down hard and pelted the ground, splashing after it fell.

She wondered how life would be now, with her knowing Sherlock Holmes once again occupying the flat over on Baker Street. It simply confounded her. The whole situation seemed surreal, like a dream. How could he still be alive? "If this is a dream," she said to herself, nearly whispering. "I do not want to wake up." It had been a few days since Sherlock had chased her to her trailer and they had spoken. She still couldn't wrap her head around things. Her heart was torn in two, happy that he was alive, but sad. She knew he would never be hers. Perhaps it would have been for the best, had he passed away.

Later on that night, the rain began to let up. She was whipping some cool candle wax off the table when she heard someone walk into her trailer. Keeping her hand close to her knife, she turned to whoever it was. "You don't seem busy today," Sherlock said, smiling at her. She let her hand fall and she smiled back. "Well, hello to you, too."

Sherlock allowed himself further into her home, clearing his throat as he went. "I was wondering if you might assist me on a case." Her eyes moved over him as she listened to him speak. He was dressed in an old pair of plaid slacks and a white cotton button down, accompanied with a jacket and scarf. "It seems my dearest Watson has left me for good this time." He smiled awkwardly, as if he were mad at Watson even though he knew he shouldn't be. "Help you? How?" Sim asked as she leaned back against her table, slipping her tarot cards into her coat pocket.

Sherlock poked a stuffed owl she had, touching a feather on its wing. The owl stared back at him, looking all too terrifying. He stood up straight, slightly scared off by the dead bird. "I need an assistant," he told Sim as he walked over to her. "And as it would seem, you're the only one I trust, besides Watson, of course." Sim tried not to show her excitement. "Let me think on it?" she asked, lying. She didn't want to seem like she was throwing herself at him, especially after the kiss she gave him the other day. She already knew her answer was yes.

"Alright." He nodded as he looked over at her. "Do know though, this case isn't too-" He stopped short, looking for the right word. "Dangerous." She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Hmmm, the last time you said that, you died in my lap and John had to revive you with your wedding gift." He looked to the floor as he laughed. "Touché, Madam. This time though, I doubt we will be leaving the country." She nodded her head, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "Thank goodness for that, at least."

He looked around her small trailer, taking its contents in. "Nice place you have here." She nodded and looked back over at the detective. "Why thank you." He smiled as he put his hands behind his back. "Rightey-oh then," he began, as he fixed the scarf that hung loosely around his neck. "My address is 221 Baker Street," he informed her. "Stop by anytime." With that, he smiled at her and politely gave his leave.

A few minutes later, Sim's friend Jake stopped by. He worked for the traveling circus and was only in town for the next few weeks but the two had grown close. He was like her little brother. The two had pondered him staying with her when the circus moved. Perhaps, he would stay.

"Who was that?" he asked, a smirk playing on his thin lips. "You got a new boyfriend?" He was young, merely in his late twenties, with a good heart and a heavy Irish humor. He was a sweetheart and nothing less. "A very dear friend of mine…" Sim answered with a small smile. She went on about clearing the table and cleaning the place up.

Jake shrugged and slipped his hands into his pockets. "Are you sure? He looked a lot like that consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes." Sim chuckled to herself as she looked over at the Irishmen. "That would probably be because he was…"


	5. Chapter 5

Sim had gotten up long before the sun had risen. She had made her mind up to help Mr. Holmes the moment he had asked for her to join him on his case, and the very next day, she would go to his flat and inform him. Besides, how bad could it be? She knew she would probably regret ever saying that…

A little after lunch a man, her fist client of the day came into her trailer. "Good day," he said, touching his hat with a lazy smile. Sim smiled back politely and sat at her table. "Put your money in the jar and we can begin, if you so choose." He walked over, sauntering over, rather. "I really didn't come by to get my fortune done, miss. I came by for something else." She looked up at him, meeting the brute of a man's dark eyes. He grinned and she saw the rotten teeth he held behind his lips. She tried to keep a distasteful look from her face, rather smirking. "Well, then I'm afraid you have come to the wrong place then." Daringly, she met his eyes and continued. "The Whitechapel district's street corners should suffice."

He chuckled and leaned on the table. "Oh, don't play so hard to get, miss. I been seeing you around here for a while. It seems like every man fancies you." He reached out and touched Sim's chin, only to have her smack his hand away. "Get out of here," she told him, thoroughly repulsed. He looked angry and he reached out for her, grabbing her wrist. "Get out of here?" He stood up but somehow, she knew it wasn't to leave.

He turned to her again and took off his bowler cap. "Come now, it's just a bit of fun," he said, quirking an eyebrow. "Surely a _gypsy _wouldn't care if I bed her." She raised an eyebrow at him, and in the blink of an eye she had pulled a knife out and stuck it to his dirty throat. "Get out of my home, or you will never be able to have children." She looked him over, thoroughly disgusted. "Vous me dégoûtez," she muttered under her breath and shoved him towards the door.

Jake McGregor, Sim's friend was just about to knock on the door when Sim threw it open and a big, burly man with it. Jake watched, wide-eyed. The man fell to the ground, eating dirt. "Get out of here," Sim said. "May witches ride off with your manhood." At last, she noticed Jake's presence. "Hello," she said to him sweetly and smiled. The big, dirty man got up went to grab Sim, obviously pissed off. Jake got a hold of his shirt collar and pulled him around, to face the Irishmen. "Damn blaggard," he mumbled as he shoved him back. The man swung at him but Jake dodged his fists. "This is none of your business, bloody mick."

Jake gasped at the man's words and leaned forward, grabbing him by the shirt again. "Watch your mouth, your piece of gobshite." Sim watched as the smaller man threw a punch. Jake held the man's shirt as he punched him hard, two more times. The other man fell over, having been knocked out.

Sim merely raised her eyebrows at Jake. The red head smirked back, crossing his arms over his chest. "What? He impugned me honor." Sim laughed lightly to herself and stepped aside for Jake to come in. "Well, come on in. I'll make us some tea." She was still a little shaken from the man who had tried to get her in bed, but she felt infinitely better now that her friend was over. Jake stepped up the stairs of her trailer and joined her at her make-shift table. "So, do I wanna know what just happened?" he asked, pointing with a thumb to the door, and to the man that lay outside, unconscious. "No," she replied honestly. "But, I'm alright. Do not worry."

The skies had grown dark. Sim could see that an early September storm would be upon them soon. As Jake made himself comfortable at the wooden table, Sim went around and closed all the windows, preparing for the rain. He played with her tarot cards, looking at all of their pictures. She left one window open for cool air flow, and Jake looked to trees outside as they twisted in the wind. "A storm is brewing," Jack said in his thick Irish brag. "Yes," Sim said, looking to the window and at the dark sky. "A storm is on its way."

They lit some candles and played cards well into the night. Sim had pulled out some fruit, bread, and cheese and they munched as they played. "You always win," Jake said, sighing. "How do you always win?" Sim laughed at his pout-face. "A gypsy never reveals her secrets. Besides, you should be happy we're not playing for money." Jake laughed as he took another bite of his apple. "You're right," he commented after chewing and swallowing. "I guess I feel lucky, in my own way."

As Sim cleared the table, cleaning up the dribbled wax and throwing away match sticks, Jake sat and went through her deck of tarot cards. They seemed to always draw his attention and Sim loved teaching him how to understand them and explain a situation to whomever he was reading. He was, much to everyone's surprise, very intelligent. You could give Jake anything and he could read it without a stutter or a stumble.

"What does this card mean?" Jake asked, showing her The Star card. She thought for a moment, carefully weighing each word. "Whenever all hope seems lost, it will reappear to prove that you have really lost nothing, except perhaps your sight of the path to enlightenment," she told her friend and put up a finger as she spoke. "And in the absence of that sight, the Star will light your way." Jake nodded, thinking over her words. "Hmmm…" She sat on the edge the table, next to him. "In terms of symbolism this card is similar to Temperance," she told him as she took the card from his fingers and pointed to some objects within the ink draw picture. "But while the contents of the Cups were mixed with each other in Temperance, here they are mixed with the waters of the eternal spirit of the Divine." Jake watched her, fully engrossed in what she had to say. "Okay, I follow," he said, nodding his head. "So," he began and cleared his throat. "The Star is a card of faith, both in your own power, and in powers greater than your own?" She nodded and smiled. "Very good," she said with a smile.

"And this one?" Jake asked, pulling out the card for The Fool. "Le Fou," she muttered, looking at the card. She puckered her lips as she thought for a long moment. "Without the notion of Zero, our system of mathematics becomes meaningless," she started. "Similarly, Le Fou is an essential part of the Tarot because he is the spark that sets everything else into motion, the divine breath that gives life and inspires the first step towards fulfillment and completion." Jake smiled up at her and watched her speak. "You sure know a lot, Sim. How do you do that?" She chuckled to herself and looked down at her friend. "A gypsy makes a living on knowing such things…" She reached down and mused his hair, making him laugh. "One day you will know as much as me," she told him with a wink. "Don't fret."

"It's getting late," he said sadly. She nodded and looked to the window, seeing the rain pelt the ground in the shadow of light that went through a pane of glass. "It's raining out. Stay here tonight, Petit." In French, petit meant little one, and Jake always thought it was cute how she referred to him as that. Since he had met her, he had begin to pick up some french. He shook his head with a smile, deciding not to comment. "Alright," he replied. "Thanks."

They settled in for the night, tucking into warm hand knitted blankets. Jake lay on the floor, Sim on her cot. She gave her friend a lot of blankets to lay on for comfort, though he didn't mind. He slept over in her trailer a lot these days. Being back with the boys from the circus made him uneasy and they often played tricks on him while he was asleep. To them, he was just the Irish lad… No one respected Irishmen, just like gypsies. Perhaps that was why they had become easy friends. They both were looked down upon by society, as if they were trash. The world was so cold, but they were both the kindest of people, if only people would give them a chance.


	6. Chapter 6

Sim had been woken up by the rooster's crow. As she ate breakfast, she realized that her mind was already made up, no matter how hard she tried to fight it. She would drop by 221b Baker Street and tell Sherlock she would help him on the case. That was the right thing to do, wasn't it? He needed her help and who was she to deny him assistance. He had never done her wrong… In fact, he had helped her find out the truth of her poor brother. If John was preoccupied with Mary, that nice kindhearted woman, and couldn't assist the detective himself, then she would.

It had been a week since she had last seen or heard from the good detective, and she felt guilty at not having gone to him sooner. He would probably wonder why and she would probably stutter and say she had been _busy._ The whole conversation played out in her head like some low-budget horror play from a washed up theatre. He would say he didn't need her assistance or companionship anymore and she would break down, cry, and leave with her dignity in shambles. "I'm bloody nutz," Sim said under her breath. "None of that will even happen."

Around ten o'clock, she made the trek to Sherlock's flat. One the way, she bought a crisp apple from a street vender. The air was brisk and it drizzled lightly, but she moved from overhang to overhang, hiding under trees and the umbrellas of people who passed by. The trees were beginning to turn and she couldn't help but wonder how the forest looked, back home. Surely the trees had all turned bright colors. The more inland you go, the quicker the seasons changed, it seems. Before no time, she found herself in front of Sherlock's flat. The ornate columns drew her attention and she couldn't seem to stop staring at the dirty stone, yet seeing the beauty in it.

Finally, she walked up the steps to knock on the door. The housekeeper answered the door with a smile. "Hello," Sim said with a polite smile. "I'm a friend of Sherlock's. Can I speak with him? Is he around?" The lady opened the door for Sim to come in. "Your name?" she asked. Sim smiled and took off her hat. "Madam Simza." The housekeeper suddenly smiled brightly, a knowing look flashing across her old features. "Oh! Hello, I've heard a great deal about you. I have to admit though, you're much more beautiful in person." Sim blushed and the lady went on to introduce herself. "I'm Mrs. Hudson. It's nice to meet you. I'll go find Mr. Holmes now… He must be around here somewhere." With that being said, the housekeeper was off, leaving Sim smiling in her wake.

Not a moment later, Sherlock appeared. He looked all too dapper in his pinstriped pants and brown cotton button down, with a black cloth hanging loosely from his tanned neck. For a split second, Sim almost lost herself in his dark brown eyes. He was a beautiful specimen, certainly a good hope for the entire race of man. He smiled under his five o'clock shadow at her and she swallowed visibly.

"How may I be of service to you?" he asked politely, raising his eyebrows at the long haired gypsy. "You… You asked if I could help you. My answer is yes." He smiled, and again her heart fluttered away like a butterfly in the wind. "Alright," he began, clasping his hands together. "When can you start?" he asked with curiosity in his eyes. Sim ran her fingers through her hair, trying to calm herself. "Whenever you'd like."

He turned away from her then, making for the ornate staircase. "This is going to be fun," he said to himself, nearly whispering. She followed after him as he went to his room. "I do thank you," he said after a few beats. "With a case as troubling as this one, I cannot solve it on my own. Though, Watson does not understand that." She looked around at the fading pictures hanging in the hall, presumably of family. "You're flat is beautiful. You keep it up nicely," she told him, still looking around. What she didn't know was that after he had 'died,' the whole house had been cleaned. "Why thank you," he answered over his shoulder as he opened his door. The ferns and potted plants had been discarded and the room was nearly empty, as was John's study. It had been quite the adventure, a real undertaking, cleaning out his flat.

It could be said now that 221b Baker Street looked something close to a normal home…

Still though, Sherlock's rooms were filled with the oddest assortment, be-it neatly, with things. In Simza's eyes, it was just perfect though, and it fit to his personality like a glove. It was exactly as she had imagined.

"So," he began and walked over to the two large windows in the room. He opened on of them for a good breeze. "You see, a woman named Polly Nichols was found across from Essex Wharf and the brown Eagle Warehouse and Shneider's Cap Factory, in a gateway entrance to the stable yard. The time was nearly 3:45, on Friday. You know this location?" Sim nodded and answered, "I do, yes." He nodded and continued, pacing around the room. "Well, I was called in by George Lusk, of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, but he told me that on paper I was not part of the case. He told me to keep it hush-hush."

Sim listened intently to him as he went on, with her hand in her hands. "She worked the Whitechapel corners, as I have been informed." Sim gave him a look, as if to say she didn't know what he meant. He made a face as he tried to find the words. "She was a prostitute, my dear." Sim nodded and looked away, feeling slightly dumb. "Oh."

Sherlock looked Sim over for a long moment. "Are you sure you don't mind? This might turn your stomach, a case like this, I mean." Sim gave him a small smile, letting him know it was alright.

"The victim was brutally murdered. Her throat was severed deeply by two cuts and, the lower part of her abdomen was ripped open with a deep, jagged wound. All incisions were made by the same knife, as to that much, I can infer." Sherlock noticed Sim grow very pale and she swallowed hard, holding her stomach. "Who would do such a thing?" she asked, wide-eyed. "That is exactly what I aim to find out, my dear. A maniac like this must be off the streets." He nodded, a little jump in his steps.

"Alright, so tell me more, I guess," Sim said, feeling brave. He nodded and went in search of the report. He flipped open the folder and reviewed a few papers before speaking. "The only things that were found on her person was a comb, a white pocket handkerchief, and a piece of mirror. The mirror would be considered a prize possession, so I am stumbled that it was not stolen. I'm afraid we can only assume, at this point, that the assailant is an upper-class male, presumably working in or around the Whitechapel district. He seems to have known the area well."

"Can I see the case file?" Sim asked, pointing to what he was holding. "Sure," he answered and handed them to her. She turned the pages before stumbling upon the inquest testimony that had been cut out of The Times. It read, 'Five teeth were missing, and there was a slight laceration of the tongue. There was a bruise running along the lower part of the jaw on the right side of the face. That might have been caused by a blow from a fist or pressure from a thumb. There was a circular bruise on the left side of the face which also might have been inflicted by the pressure of the fingers. On the left side of the neck, about 1 in. below the jaw, there was an incision about 4 in. in length, and ran from a point immediately below the ear." Sim felt something inside her churn and she had to swallow the bile back. "People never cease to amaze me," she mumbled under her breath.

She continued on, knowing it would help Sherlock. 'On the same side, but an inch below, and commencing about 1 in. in front of it, was a circular incision, which terminated at a point about 3 in. below the right jaw. That incision completely severed all the tissues down to the vertebrae. The large vessels of the neck on both sides were severed. The incision was about 8 in. in length. the cuts must have been caused by a long-bladed knife, moderately sharp, and used with great violence. No blood was found on the breast, either of the body or the clothes. There were no injuries about the body until just about the lower part of the abdomen. Two or three inches from the left side was a wound running in a jagged manner. The wound was a very deep one, and the tissues were cut through. There were several incisions running across the abdomen. There were three or four similar cuts running downwards, on the right side, all of which had been caused by a knife which had been used violently and downwards. the injuries were form left to right and might have been done by a left handed person. All the injuries had been caused by the same instrument.'

"This is just… I cannot understand what type of person it takes to do something like this." She sighed and dropped the file onto his Victorian desk. "Well, the murderer must be a doctor, no?" Sherlock rubbed his beard and turned to meet her gaze. "Hmmm, interesting thought. He very well could be."

"What was she doing out?" she asked Sherlock. "Why was she out so late, I mean?" He nodded in understanding and thought for a long moment, trying to remember such a detail. "It August the 31st, she was arrested for drunkenly behavior but was let out later that night and not long after, her body was found by PC John Neil."

"What gets me the most… She is almost underneath the window of Mrs. Emma Green, a light sleeper, who lives in the first house next to the stable gates. Her house is called the 'New Cottage'. She is a widower with two sons and a daughter living with her. That night, one son goes to bed at 9:00, pm of course, the other follows at 9:45. Mrs. Green and her daughter shared a first floor room at the front of the house. They went to bed at approximately 11:00. She claims she slept undisturbed by any unusual sound until she was awakened by the police." He shook his head and took a deep breath. "It makes no sense to me. Why didn't Nichols' scream or shout?"

Sim sat down in one of the chairs Sherlock kept near his desk and crossed her legs. "Perhaps she was drugged?" Sherlock nodded, obviously taking that into consideration. "Well," Sim said. "I can see why you needed help with this case." The detective merely nodded his head and took a seat next to Sim, his eyes on the faraway wall. Outside, the rain continued to fall and tap on the side of the house.

Grim, dark clouds seemed to cover London. Something bad was upon the city. Sim couldn't put a finger on it, but she felt like this woman wasn't going to be the only victim of the Whitechapel murderer. It wasn't a feeling she could explain and it frightened her something terrible. With a low sigh, she rubbed her temple.


End file.
